Rache is Revenge
by MustacheBuddiesXD
Summary: When Sherlock returns from the dead, John is quite unhappy to learn that there is one little thread of Moriarty's web left to take care of. The first case that John and Sherlock face after being reunited may be the one that changes everything. Pre-slash to slash John/Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, everyone. Here it is. The first chapter of my first ever Sherlock fic. I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, I just enjoy writing about them.**

-0-0-0-0-

I stood there, frozen on the spot, as the room spun dangerously around me and time slowed to a standstill. No, this couldn't be happening. It was just another figment of my imagination or an elaborate dream. Yes, we could go with that, now couldn't we? This was just another dream, just a really convincing dream.

In my state I didn't notice the clatter my shopping made as it hit the floor. I didn't notice anything other than the man standing in front of me and the way he softly said my name. Everything else had faded out.

"Oh god. Oh god," I muttered, my breath gasping. I extended an arm to lean on the nearest wall to keep myself from toppling over. The room was still spinning.

"John," he said again in a worried tone, making to take a step closer, but I held up my other hand in warning.

"Stay. Back," I grunted. He stopped, his eyebrows drawing together slightly. It took me a few minutes, but I was finally able to breathe evenly enough for clear speech. "You… You're alive?" I asked quietly. No, of course he wasn't. I had seen him jump off of a building, I had taken his _pulse_. He had died.

"Yes, I'm alive."

"H-how?" I managed, my voice cracking.

"It might be best to sit down for this conversation," he responded solemnly. What could I do but nod and hope that maybe, just maybe this wasn't another dream?

-0-0-0-0-

Sherlock Holmes, the same exact one who had committed suicide nine months ago and left me _so alone_ was sitting in the living room of my new flat like it was the most normal thing he could have done. He had died, and now here he was, sitting there almost exactly like he used to. Like _before._

Except that he wasn't exactly the same. I had reanalyzed those memories I had of him over and over, looking for clues, anything that might just possibly get me through another day, allow me to not escape, but control the pain that was so overwhelming. Yes, I knew my memories of him quite well, back and forth, and this was slightly different. It was in the way he held himself, slightly bent over at the shoulders, as if there was a weight there that wasn't there before. To an outside eye he would still appear the same elegant, almost cold figure, but to me it was a world's difference. His eyes, too, were slightly different. He was upset, and there was something else there, hidden beneath.

We were sitting across from one another in my new, drab flat. It was plain, so plain that it looked as though nobody lived there. The only thing that made it my own was the empty mug sitting on the table and the laptop perched on the empty chair in the corner. The rest was all furniture that had come with the flat, a rental that I knew was only temporary. I didn't have much in the way of possessions anyway, so it wasn't as if I had had much moving in to do. And there was no way I would've been able to handle staying in 221B; that had been out of the question. So this was where I had found myself, a few blocks away in a small building of plain, furnished flats with plain, ordinary neighbors. I worked my ordinary job at the surgery, and tried as hard as I could to keep up a normal existence that was as different as it could be from my life with Sherlock.

Everyone who knew me knew that it was a poor façade for the broken man that I had become, but they tried to act normally around me. They knew that what would cure me was impossible. Well, it seemed to be looking less and less impossible as time went by.

"You faked your death to save me?"

"Yes, John, I had to," he responded, his expression willing me to understand. But how could I? Did he even know the pain that I had gone through?

"I really wanted to tell you that I was alive, but there were still things to be done, strings to snip. You would have been in danger, and I couldn't have that and stay alert."

Unexpected anger seemed to come from nowhere, and I felt myself tense up. "Do you think I would have cared that I was in danger? Do you really think that a little danger was worse than thinking you were _dead?"_ I almost said his name, but my voice would have failed me. "You have a bloody headstone!"

"I couldn't risk losing you, John. Moriarty's web was so vast, ready at any moment to collapse in on me, and in extension, you, if you happened to be by my side. The best way to prevent that was to keep you in the dark, to make sure that you had nothing to do with me." Sherlock sounded urgent, like my understanding was the only thing that mattered. The facts were lining up, but after nine months of knowing something one way it was hard to suddenly change, even if the hard evidence was right in front of your face.

"God, this is going to take some time," I eventually muttered, rubbing my face wearily. My heart rate had gone down and the room had stopped spinning, leaving me exhausted and dumbfounded.

We sat in an almost uncomfortable silence for a few moments when there was a chiming sound. We both started. Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out his mobile phone, a different one than the one he had before, I realized. It made a different sound than the one before did, and it was thinner; a newer model. Funny of me to notice the exact changes in his phone, right down to the way it fit in his hand.

His eyebrows furrowed as he read the text, and had it been _before_ I would have been curious, perhaps asked him what it was wrong, but now I only felt weary. Half of me expected to wake up at any moment panting and sweating in my bed, having suffered from another one of my Sherlock infested dreams.

Sherlock tucked the phone in his pocket and looked back up at me, a strange expression on his face, one that I was unaccustomed to. "I just wanted to let you know, John, that I'm, ah, moving back into Baker Street, and if you happen to want to come back. I mean, this place looks nice and all." He gave the room around us a glance, obvious distaste on his face. "But the offer is still open to you." I realized what the emotion on his face was. Nervousness. He was worried about rejection, about getting the cold shoulder from me.

"You expect me just to leave this place on a moment's notice? To continue everything as it was before like none of this craziness ever happened?" I asked incredulously, realizing moments after that that was e_xactly_ what he expected. But as I looked around the drab little place that I was living in I realized that I would give anything to have things the way they were, back when 221B was the place where one retired army doctor and one consulting detective lived. This was what I had hoped, dreamed would happen from when Sherlock had first gone, and here he was. How could I not accept?

"I don't really have much to move. It won't even require a truck," I stated eventually, and Sherlock's gaze snapped up from his lap. He hadn't been expecting me to respond like that.

"So you're coming back?" he asked, his eyes slightly wider than usual. He was very good at keeping his expression in check, but there was raw emotion lurking on the edges just waiting to show through, and it made my stomach do odd flips to see it. What would happen if he were to release all of that emotion?

I nodded stiffly, which seemed to be the only thing I was able to do. Looking at Sherlock I could see some significant changes that were bugging me. First, his hair was slightly shorter than it had been before, almost as if he had cut it short and it was just now getting back to its usual length. There were also a few marks on his face, as if he had been in a fight with someone. His normally straining shirt also wasn't so tight anymore; he had lost some weight, and now the shirt hung off of him slightly. It pained me to see this, so I allowed my eyes to rove back up to his face. His gaze was travelling in the same way that mine was on him, hungrily cataloging what we hadn't seen in months.

The clock on the mantelpiece tolled at the hour, which seemed to break us out of our trance, and I realized that I had been staring, transfixed. I coughed, slightly embarrassed. But Sherlock had been looking at me with an intense expression, so it wasn't really my fault that I was distracted. Anyone could get completely distracted with that look aimed at them. I was only the victim, right?

I vaguely wondered what had become of the flat and if we would be able to move back in easily. We would have to check with Mrs. Hudson later on to see if it was still available for rent. I hadn't been able to clear out any of his things, so any of the items that had been moved had been moved by Mrs. Hudson. I now hoped that she hadn't gotten rid of something important, because we would never hear the end of it if she had.

"Six o'clock dinner at Angelo's?" Sherlock asked me, standing up and tugging on the bottom of his suit jacket to straighten it out.

"Sure," I said lightly. I hadn't been back to Angelo's since Sherlock's 'death', and I had missed the place in an odd sort of way. I stood up, feeling slightly awkward now. He was about to turn toward the door when I was taken by a sudden impulse that was kindled by my panic at his leaving my sight. Would he disappear forever once he was gone again?

I stepped forward quickly the few steps that were between us and grabbed Sherlock's arms, pulling him into a tight hug and burying my face in his shoulder. He stiffened, surprised by the contact.

But then he softened into my embrace, folding his arms around my back and whispering a soft, "John," into my ear. Something snapped within me, something that I realized had only been hanging on by a thread since I had started talking to Sherlock, and suddenly I was crying, crying heavily into the collar of his jacket.

It had been a while since I had cried over him. After the first few weeks I had gone from sad and crying to numb and empty, so it was odd now to be sobbing again. Especially while _hugging _him. I thought for sure that I was going to get scolded for it, that he was going to pull me back and go into some sort of rant as to why it was something stupid and boring to be doing, but his arms just tightened around me.

I relaxed gradually and was soon only sniffing, a little embarassed. I unwound my arms from around him and he allowed me to pull back. God, I must've looked terrible, and I had gotten his jacket wet, a jacket that was probably more expensive than my entire wardrobe. He was gazing at me in a soft way, and I felt utterly bizarre, like I really was in a dream or in some alternate universe, because in _my_ universe Sherlock did not hug and did not comfort.

And then something even _more_ bizarre happened. Sherlock, who was still rather closer to me than usual and still had one arm wrapped around my back, reached one hand towards my face and used his thumb to wipe the wetness from under my eyes.

"I missed you, John." He then turned around and walked out of my flat, the door closing behind him with a final snick. _What the bloody hell had just happened? _The space he had just been occupying felt cold, and I shivered involuntarily, hoping desperately that I hadn't gone crazy and imagined the whole thing.

The only evidence that my life had changed completely from a few hours ago were my groceries all over the floor and the puffy feel of my face from my tears. I stood completely still in the middle of the flat feeling just a bit fried, and then shook my head.

The remainder of the afternoon I spent restlessly putting away my groceries and trying to clean up my flat, which really wasn't all that dirty to begin with. I was a naturally clean person, and I barely had any items to clutter the place up with. I decided that it would probably be in my best interest to pack up the few items I did have in preparation of moving out. Now that Sherlock was back I was ready for life to pick back up again, and this place was starting to give me the creeps. Something about it was too normal, too average, for it to exist in a world that still held one Sherlock Holmes, alive, well, and solving cases. No, this place was no longer the place for me.

All of my belongings ended up fitting in a few suitcases that I could easily drag out the door if need be, so I set them in the middle of the living room floor and gazed around the place in a kind of detached state. Part of me was still wondering if I hadn't gone mad and was imaging the return of Sherlock. Everything still looked exactly the same; was it possible for everything to still look the same when he was alive? You'd think something drastic would be out of place, yelling out to the world the good news, the end of inner turmoil and despair. But there was no such thing, so I was left with the inner workings of my mind to assure me that I was not insane, that the memories were clear enough that they had to be real… right?

Needless to say it was easy for my emotions to shift from blinding happiness to panic in the blink of an eye with just the tiniest shred of doubt. I was going to go crazy before 6:00 even came around.

My phone chimed, startling me. I picked it up off of the coffee table and found a new text message from an unknown number.

_I'm alive –SH_

I smiled.

-0-0-0-0-

**I will try to keep constant with when I post new chapters, but I'm not going to promise anything. Oh, and I do love reviews :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, I just enjoy writing about them.**

-0-0-0-0-

Angelo's looked exactly the same as I had remembered it from that fateful first day, that first case. As I stepped in the front door I recalled the conversation at the window table. He had thought I had been asking him out and had turned me down awkwardly, and I had denied it just as awkwardly. In truth, I really hadn't been asking him out, as much as it had sounded like it. I definitely had been curious about him, and more than a little impressed, but I hadn't even realized the implications of my question until Sherlock pointed them out. That had been rather interesting.

Sherlock wasn't there yet when I walked in, but I had arrived early, so I didn't start worrying yet. Angelo greeted me warmly, grabbing my shoulder and smiling broadly. I hadn't been here since Sherlock had gone, not wanting the flashbacks that were so fresh and powerful. In fact, I had tried not to venture anywhere that had any significant link to Sherlock in any way, other than his grave every once in a while.

Judging by the way that Angelo seemed to be tiptoeing around me, he didn't know that Sherlock was alive. That made me wonder who _did_ know that Sherlock was alive? Was he just going to waltz in here like nothing had changed? Probably.

My question was answered when Sherlock walked through the door. True, he wasn't wearing his signature coat and scarf, having chosen jeans, a striped shirt, a jacket with a collar that was covering most of his face, and a fedora that covered his curly hair. He had spoken of hiding in plain sight, but I doubted this one.

Sherlock walked up to me and spoke in a low voice into my ear. "We should take a booth in the corner where it's darker," he said softly. "That way there is less chance I'll be recognized."

I nodded, but didn't have time to do much else. Angelo had taken ahold of one of Sherlock's thin shoulders and was staring at him with wide eyes. "Sherlock, you little scoundrel! I should've known that you weren't really dead!" His voice boomed through the little restaurant, and many of the patrons gazed over with slightly startled expressions. "You, sir, are a true genius." The rest of what he said was in quick, happy Italian, so I had no idea what he was talking about, but apparently Sherlock did from the way he was nodding and cringing.

We eventually managed to find our seats in the corner table, which was rather tight. I was glad to be out of the spotlight in the middle of the restaurant being stared at by everyone, though. And if I was feeling that way I could only imagine what Sherlock was feeling, wanting to stay out of sight. Luckily everyone had just thought that Angelo was being his normal boisterous self and had gone back to eating like nothing drastic had happened. Angelo, though, was incessantly happy, and wanted to know many things about Sherlock's escape from death. He eventually got the hint that Sherlock wasn't going to disclose any of that information and smiled knowingly at me in a slightly disturbing way, to which I smiled back politely.

"I'll let you two get back to your reunion, ay?" he said with a wink in my direction. I scoffed slightly when he came back with a lit candle, but just slumped my shoulders in defeat when he winked again. What was the point denying something to deaf ears anyway?

When I finally got a good look at Sherlock I noticed that he seemed a little bedraggled, as if he had just come from a tedious business of some sort, and he acted extremely tired in a way that none of his cases before had made him. No matter how long he had been without sleep on an exciting case he always seemed to have limitless energy, bounding around until the case was solved or until he collapsed from exhaustion. Now, though, he seemed weary and bothered when he wasn't talking to me.

He had taken the hat off, and I was amazed to find that his hair was still perfect, like always. Sherlock was immune to hat hair, apparently. I was also a little worried by the striped collared shirt he was wearing, so different from his solid colored fashionable shirts he constantly sported, but I definitely couldn't say that I disliked it one bit. In fact, seeing Sherlock wearing something different was a good change.

Our conversation for the first thirty minutes or so bordered on completely purposeless, but it felt good to be talking to each other like this again after being without him for so long. That was one of the things I had missed sorely; his wit and easy responses to the things I said. We understood each other's humor quite well, and somehow we fell easily into the old patterns. And he laughed, which was something I hadn't realized that I had missed so much. It was a deep sound, and his wide smile wrinkled the sides of his eyes and mouth in a way that was utterly endearing. I couldn't help but wonder if that was a normal thing to think of your best mate, but then decided that that sort of pondering hurt my head at the moment.

"So, when are you going to tell people that you're back?" I asked him after a while. "Who else knows besides me?"

He fiddled with his napkin for a few seconds, and then his eyes flicked up to look at me. "Molly knew from the very beginning, before I jumped. She was the one who helped me with the… _arrangements. _Mycroft was also informed through his network. I required his services for some of my more difficult tasks, unfortunately." He paused, sighing. "You were the very first one I told face to face. I wanted to be sure of that."

I didn't know how to respond. It gave me a certain kind of satisfaction to know that he had come to me first, above all others, but as I thought about it I couldn't really place any other close friends he would go and tell before me. Perhaps Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson, but they weren't as close to him as I was. It did bug me that Molly knew, and I suppose now it made sense as to why she had acted strangely at the funeral and around me afterwards. I couldn't help the slightest feelings of jealousy, even though I knew that she had helped Sherlock survive.

Sherlock must have sensed some of my discomfort, because he leaned forward, his face rather close to mine and said in a soft, deep voice, "John, you _must_ understand that I did all of this for _you._ I _had _to save you. It was not my purpose to hurt you. I _need _you to understand." He sounded desperate, and his eyes were boring into mine. I almost squirmed under the intensity of his gaze.

"God, Sherlock, you have to give me some time. My best friend just came back from the dead after nine months," I grumbled, rubbing my neck. There was still a voice inside my head that was telling me that there was no way that this was real, but kept getting cut off when Sherlock talked or when he looked at me fully. God, he was here and I wasn't crazy.

Sherlock visibly deflated, his shoulders hunching, and frowned. God, he was like a child sometimes, so much so that it made my chest hurt seeing him like this. "Sherlock," I said softly, waiting until he looked back up at me to go on. "I understand that you made a big sacrifice for me, and I am thankful for that. And Jesus, Sherlock, I can't even tell you how happy I am that you're alive … I just need time for it to all make sense again, okay? I need to get used to you being here. I keep thinking you're going to disappear, actually."

His eyes were downcast as he nodded. That was when my dinner was brought out by Angelo, who gave me another wink, which I again smiled politely back at. I was beginning to think he had something in his eye.

"Sherlock, you're as skinny as a rail, you should eat something," I said as I twirled spaghetti around my fork. It felt good to be hungry again, and the pasta tasted amazing as I took my first few mouthfuls.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm on a case," he said simply.

I started. "Already? I thought nobody knew that you were alive."

He looked at me, and I could tell there was some sort of internal debate going on in that brain of his. "John, this isn't a normal case. This one is important… and dangerous."

I swallowed nervously. Suddenly I wasn't so hungry anymore. "Important?"

"I'll tell you more about it when the time comes," he said, tapping his fingers on the table to some unknown music in his head.

"No."

"Pardon?"

"I said no, Sherlock. I am done with this 'in the dark' stuff. I've told you countless times that I am in this with you, here to protect you. Please don't cut me out again. I don't think I can handle it."

He sighed. "Fine, John, I just thought it better not to give you any stress yet."

"You should have thought of that before you told me you were on a case." I was not going to back off on this one. This was exactly the kind of thing that had led up to his fake death, and I was not going to let that kind of thing happen again, if I could help it.

Sherlock sighed heavily, but gave in nonetheless. "I told you what I have been doing for the past nine months, haven't I?" he asked slowly, cautiously.

I nodded. "Moriarty's web, right?"

"Mhmm. Well, I untied all of the strands over time, with the help of Mycroft here and there. I can tell you that it wasn't easy and that I don't think I have ever gotten as tired of a case as I did tracking down that rubbish."

Sherlock paused for a second as if calming himself, which seemed odd to me. It was also quite odd for him to tire of such an elaborate case. Usually the more elaborate and twisted the more he enjoyed it.

"There is one left, John, one important link left, one that keeps slipping out of my grasp. I had to make sure that I could watch you as much as I could, otherwise you could be in more danger than you already are."

"I'm in danger?"

"Yes, John, Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right-hand man, sniper, ex-soldier, seems to be targeting you. I have a feeling his goal is to exact revenge on me through you."

The nightmare was closing around on me like a steel trap and I felt my heart rate quicken. This whole horrid thing wasn't over, not even close. A right-hand man? Oh, God…

"John, as long as you are with me at all times there is no chance that you will be harmed," Sherlock said softly, brushing a hand across the one that I had clenched on the table. This startled me out of my panic and my whirling vision centered on his pinched face.

"I'm not worried about getting harmed, Sherlock," I said through clenched teeth. I was about to explain what I meant, but closed my mouth again with a snap. There was no point to this, was there? No, Sherlock wasn't going to understand my viewpoint no matter how many times I attempted to explain. Regular human feelings just weren't fathomable to him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me, and I suddenly got the premonition that a deduction was coming on.

"Sherlock, please don't deduce me."

His eyes met mine and the corners of his mouth turned down. "I'm sorry, John," he murmured. "You wouldn't believe how much I have missed being able to see you."

His soft tone surprised me. Sherlock seemed so sincere in his remorse and regret, and even though I couldn't help but feel he was still hiding something from me, I wanted desperately to completely forgive him and have things go back to the way they were. "I've missed you too, Sherlock, but I'm sure you were able to see that immediately."

Sherlock didn't respond, but continued looking at me for a few more moments. He then checked his phone and suddenly stood up. "We need to leave, John," he said, edging out of the booth and checking his watch. "Now." He was tapping his foot and his eyes were darting around the restaurant quickly.

I glanced around, startled and a little spooked, and had not a clue what was going on.

"Why? What's wrong?" I asked, standing up quickly.

"Not right now, John. I'll explain later. We need to get out of here."

The thing was, even after all that had happened, all that Sherlock had put me through and kept from me, I still trusted him with everything, still knew that he would keep me safe and try to make everything right in the end. I was his ever-faithful companion, destined to follow him and trust him no matter what sort of pain he put me through. I didn't even think twice about the way he glared out the windows and at the other patrons.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, I just enjoy writing about them.**

-0-0-0-0-

I knew that Mrs. Hudson hadn't rented the flat out to anybody else, holding a special place in her heart for the two of us and wanting to keep our memories in 221B untainted. She couldn't keep it forever without renting it to somebody though, and she had told me quite reluctantly that by the end of this year she was going to need to find new renters. Along with that she had begged me plenty a time to stay there, claiming that she missed me horridly and would keep my share of the rent the same just for me. I couldn't do it.

On the cab ride to 221B Baker Street to talk to Mrs. Hudson I warned Sherlock to go easy on her.

"Don't do anything stupid, just be calm. I'll break it to her slowly and then you can come in, okay?" I told Sherlock, who was looking out the window. He turned to look at me.

"Of course," he said in a clipped tone. I blinked.

"Um… Good," I responded, and the rest of the way to Baker Street was spent in contemplative silence.

Mrs. Hudson had been very happy to see me, twittering about how thin I was and how if I had moved in with her she would have kept me healthy and cared for.

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I was just coming to say that I do want to move back in, if that's alright." I wasn't expecting the happy squeal or having her jumping to hug me.

"John, dear, that's wonderful! What changed?" she asked, beaming up at me. I really had missed her, the sweet, caring lady she was.

"Well, erm, Mrs. Hudson, I think there's something that I need to tell you. I don't know if you're going to believe me at first, but…"

Her eyebrows drew together when she noticed my nervousness. "What is it?"

I sighed, preparing myself. "Yeah, uh, Sherlock's alive." Well, that hadn't come out the way I had hoped. Way for subtlety, John.

She was blank for a few moments, and then her expression clouded with worry. "Oh, John," she said, placing a hand on my upper arm.

So, she thought that I was imagining things now. Just great. "No, Mrs. Hudson, this morning I was bringing in my groceries and thought that I saw someone following me. I couldn't tell, but when I unlocked my flat and turned around to close the door, there he was, as alive as ever and wearing that bloody coat and scarf of his." I soon realized that this approach was not going to work. I sighed. "Can you give me a second?" I asked. She nodded, more than a little confused and worried by my tirade.

I walked outside and found Sherlock where he was leaning against a wall nearby. "Come on," I said, ignoring his raised eyebrows. He followed me back to the flat.

Her reaction to seeing Sherlock standing behind me when I stepped out of the way was a little different to what mine had been. Yes, she did stand there staring for a few moments, but she recovered quickly and ran over to him, pulling him into a tight hug. "Sherlock, you are a horrible person sometimes, you know that?" she said, pulling back to look at the tall detective who, at the moment, had an expression of slight confusion and the slightest of smiles on his face. "I'm not going to even bother asking how you did it. Oh dearie me…. Now my boys are back together!" she hummed, and I saw the wetness in her eyes. Her hands gestured wildly as she moved back into the flat allowing us to follow her.

I think I sort of tuned out the rest of her wild chatter as we examined the flat that looked like a clean had been attempted and then given up on, still holding the slight smell we left in it and the clutter only slightly contained in a large collection of cardboard boxes. This would not take long to clean, and we would be able to move into the flat that night if we wished, and I'm pretty sure Mrs. Hudson mentioned that in her ramblings.

It all seemed rather convenient, really, and I was wondering about Mrs. Hudson's reaction, which had seemed a little off. She had taken it really well, and despite the few seconds of surprise she had recovered quickly. She left the room for a few seconds to go retrieve something from her flat and I confronted Sherlock.

"Alright, tell me," I demanded, crossing my arms at Sherlock, who was digging in a box in the kitchen. He straightened and looked at me. "What's going on?"

Sherlock blinked, and I could easily tell that he was feigning confusion.

"Don't give me that."

Sherlock sagged slightly. "There was no way I was taking the chance of the flat not being available, and I couldn't tell you that I was alive and leave you in that bloody flat of yours. I paid Mrs. Hudson a visit last week."

I couldn't help but feel a slight disappointment run through me at that, but I had known when he told me that I was the first one he met with that it was probably too good to be true. I reminded myself that he had done it for convenience more than anything else, but I still felt slightly bitter. I pushed that feeling down roughly though and went back to trying to sort through some of the junk.

Mrs. Hudson came back, oblivious to her opaque transparent ruse and continued to fuss over us.

"Mrs. Hudson, we probably need to go now so that we can get our things," I told her after a while, and I could have sworn Sherlock sent me a gratifying look. I knew that he cared for the loveable landlady immensely, but she really was getting underfoot and I could tell he was losing his patience.

And so we left, Sherlock accompanying me back to my flat. I didn't know exactly why he needed to do this, but I was aware of the furtive looks he was throwing over his shoulder and the quick pace in which he was walking, and I put two and two together to decide that I was possibly unsafe alone. He had told me, after all, that there was a sniper assassin after me for revenge. This was going to take some getting used to, I mused. The past couple of months all of the danger that Sherlock had brought with him was gone, and my life had gone back to the drabness that I hated so much. Now with it back I felt a hundred percent better. I could already feel things falling back into place as they should be.

-0-0-0-0-

That night turned out to be the first night I spent back in 221B Baker Street after Sherlock's return. All of it had happened so suddenly, and as I lie in bed that night my mind was reeling. The smell of the flat was bringing back memories that I had not thought about in quite some time, along with odd feelings of déjà vu. To think that Sherlock was in the flat with me again, alive, working on a case, and just _being Sherlock_ was unbelievably relieving. I will admit that he was different, hell, _I _was different too, but he was alive, and that was what counted.

Getting my belongings over to the flat had been easy, and I decided that I would close the other flat within a week. I would have liked to never have to deal with it again, but there were things needed to move out of a rental. As soon as possible though, I would be done with it.

At the time I didn't put much thought into Moran. I was a little worried about him, but he couldn't have been as devious as Moriarty was, as dastardly, and he was focused on me and not Sherlock, so it didn't place on the top of my priority list when it came to what to stress about next. I was too busy marveling in the lightening of my grief, and I even forgot myself every once in a while. I would feel crushing sorrow for a few moments only to realize that Sherlock was indeed alive.

I knew that I would not be sleeping well that first night. My head was buzzing and I was feeling that rush of adrenaline I associated with Sherlock and his cases that I had nearly forgotten the feeling of. So that was why I easily picked up the sound of the violin from downstairs in the early hours of the morning cutting a mournful tune through the flat. God had I missed that sound. When Sherlock had been 'dead' I sometimes had imagined I could hear the violin in the middle of the night, but so different had it been to this now. It was as if Sherlock's playing was the window to his feelings that he could never express out loud, and I almost felt as if I was intruding on something that should have been completely private. Nonetheless, I listened intently, soaking in the beautiful, swooping melody drifting up to my room and eventually was lulled to sleep by it. Was he actually attempting to put me to sleep? Did he know that I had been lying awake listening?

Unfortunately Sherlock's return did nothing to stop the nightmares. That had been the worst thing, the nightmares. Before Sherlock's 'death' they had been of Afghanistan and the horrors there, but now they were an odd mixture of Sherlock and Afghanistan, all equally terrifying and painful. Every other night I woke up in a cold sweat or sobbing. They had been getting better recently, but seeing Sherlock must have triggered them to return in full force.

Sherlock was standing right in front of me, smiling sadly in a way that I didn't like one bit. A smile like that meant bad things were to follow. He stepped closer, towering over me and causing me to crane my neck to look up at him properly. "Sherlock?" I asked softly.

"John," he responded just as gently, reaching a hand up to trace my jawline. At first I thought he was going to kiss me, given the way he was tilting my head and the way he was staring at me, and I felt my heart flutter strangely at that, but when he leaned down his mouth went right next to my ear. "None of this has happened, John," he murmured. "I never returned. I am dead, John, and I won't be coming back. You are merely having hallucinations caused by grief and trauma, much like PTSD, which you should have realized from the very beginning. Why don't you ever observe?"

My blood ran cold and my mouth dried out. "Goodbye, John," he said, pulling back from me, and it was funny because it sounded like a recording in my head of what had already been stated nine months ago. I looked up at him and saw the blood running down the side of his face, soaking his hair down and making him look so much paler than he usually was. And that same smile was on his face.

"No, don't" I whispered, trying to reach for him, but he was backing away, disappearing into the growing shadows of what I now noticed to be 221B. "No," I said louder, and took a step to follow after him. Someone grabbed my arms from behind in a tight grip. I snapped my head around to see who it was and saw the other face that had plagued my nightmare frequently, the one with the manic smile and the large, cold eyes. Moriarty.

"Hello, Johnny," he cooed. "You can't have him, I'm afraid. He's all mine now. You had your turn."

I looked back to see if I could catch Sherlock to find that the end of his coat was twirling around the edge of the door. If I ran I would make it, I knew I could. But Moriarty wasn't letting me go, and now he was laughing manically in my ear.

"Sherlock!" I screamed, struggling against his firm grasp. "Sherlock!" My voice began to echo in my head in an odd fashion, and my vision was clouding. Moriarty's laughing got louder and I struggled harder.

"Nice try John, but Sherlock's gone, and will be forever," Moriarty said, his voice coming to me from a haze that was starting to blind me, and was causing me to panic.

"John!" I shook my head a few times. The room around me was fading; Moriarty's laughs were getting less clear. "John, please." But the voice was getting clearer, and the grip on my arms was staying resolute.

I opened my eyes to find Sherlock above me in the dark, a drawn, worried expression on his face that was a good few inches from my own. His hands were on my arms almost like he was pinning me down, crouching over me on the bed.

"John?"

I found that I was breathing heavily, my heart beating fast and a cold sweat covering my face. "Sherlock, what…?"

"You were having a nightmare, John, thrashing about and calling my name, and I thought…" he petered off, his gaze searching my face for something. He eventually shook his head slowly and climbed off of me to the other side of the bed, sitting on his knees and peering at me through the dark. I turned to look at him, trying to calm myself down.

"Yes, I was having a nightmare," I began, trying to clear the images from my head, the sound of Moriarty's laughter. "But it was just a dream, it doesn't matter."

"Dreams are the perfect view of the inner workings of the subconscious," Sherlock said, almost to himself, tilting his head slightly. "You were calling my name, John."

"God, Sherlock, use your deductive abilities. Why do you think I would be calling your name during a nightmare, huh? Right after you return from the dead out of the blue, and now I'm back in my old bedroom, surrounded by memories. Why do you think I was calling your name?"

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. The only sound in the room was my gradually calming breathing and the London traffic outside the window. I glanced at the clock. It was four in the morning. Luckily tomorrow was Sunday and I wouldn't have to do a shift at the surgery.

"You can go back to whatever it was you were doing, Sherlock, I'm okay now," I said, turning my head to look at the ceiling. I heard the springs creak and thought that Sherlock had left the room, so when he spoke from right next to me, I was slightly startled.

"It might make the nightmares less potent if I remain here," he said slowly, unsurely. I looked at him again and saw that he had readjusted himself on the bed so that he was leaning back against the pillows and headboard, still pinning me in that gaze that was sparkling in the slight light that was coming through my door that was barely ajar.

"You really don't have to do that. Sherlock, I'll be okay." I had to admit, though, that the idea wasn't completely repellant. I could reach out and touch him here, he was so close, and it almost seemed like an anchor, pinning him to reality, keeping him solid and alive and _not_ a figment of my imagination.

He must have read it on my face, because he smiled and sunk down further into the pillows under his head. "I won't bother you, just go back to sleep," he told me, pressing his hands together in that way of his, underneath his chin. He looked bizarre, lying next to me in that blue robe of his, his hair tousled and a slight smile playing on his face. This wasn't right, was it? This wasn't something that I should be allowing. It was a major infraction of certain standards that were normal of flatmates and friends. At the moment I couldn't bring myself to care.

I chuckled, closing my eyes. I was pretty tired, and somehow knowing that he was right there made it all the better. I soon fell into an easy, dreamless sleep, not even bothering about the oddity of the situation, or how normal male flatmates didn't do this regularly, or the fact that I really wasn't gay. The only thing that mattered was that Sherlock was alive and was trying to mend things between us in the ways that he knew how. I definitely didn't notice him watching me as he thought in the dark quite room with the sounds of my slow, calm breathing. I was too busy sleeping more soundly than I had in months.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, I just enjoy writing about them.**

-0-0-0-0-

It was quite sunny in my bedroom by the time I woke up, and my head was a good amount clearer than it had been in some time. I sat up, rubbing my face and staring around my bedroom, feeling strange waking up here after so long. I glanced at the spot in the bed next to me, noticing its emptiness and wondering if everything that had happened last night had been some bizarre, crazed dream. No, there was a slight indentation in the pillow and the blanket was wrinkled where he had been lying. There was no other evidence, but that was enough for me.

It took me some time, but I eventually grabbed a change of clothes and made my way to the bathroom for a shower. Stepping under the hot water I was reminded just how nice the shower head was and how our hot water heater was so much better than at the flat I had been renting. I could've stood there forever, but there was something insistent in the back of my mind telling me that the sooner I laid eyes on Sherlock the better, and it only got worse as the time went on and my brain was telling me that maybe, just maybe I had made it all up.

I dressed quickly and made my way down the stairs slowly, trying to calm my bubbling stomach. Why the heck was I nervous? When I made it all the way down and entered the living room I was greeted to a scene that was quite familiar, which stirred an odd feeling within me.

Sherlock was pacing the room quickly, his blue robe fluttering behind him and his face hosting a frustrated expression that only he could pull off so well. He would make it all the way to the coffee table on one side and then turn back, pacing back to the fireplace. I had no idea how long I stood there, staring at him, but he eventually stopped his progress to glance at me. He must have just noticed I was standing there, because he nodded at me and sat down heavily in his armchair, legs flung out and fingers tapping on the armrests.

"Good morning, John," he said, smiling slightly as his gaze raked over me, most likely analyzing everything about my sleeping patterns of the night right in that glance. Of course, he didn't have to analyze it at all, having been there next to me for a good portion of the night, as I recall. I shifted my weight nervously. It had been quite some time since I had had this sort of attention, and one had to really get used to Sherlock's all-knowing gaze.

"Morning," I muttered, shuffling over to the kitchen for anything that would quell my hungry, jittery stomach. Tea and toast would do nicely, if we happened to have any. I managed to bring my groceries from yesterday here and place them in the refrigerator, meaning that there were some things that were edible, unlike most of the time. Sherlock also hadn't had the time to fill the kitchen with experiments and body parts, so I didn't have to be as cautious as usual. I would have to relearn how to monitor what I took from the fridge to make sure I didn't get any body parts.

As I fiddled in the kitchen I was conscious of Sherlock's gaze on my back, which wouldn't normally bother me, but this morning I was feeling off-kilter and a little shocked from everything. Being back here in the flat was so strange, like something had brought me back in time out of nowhere. It definitely had left me feeling a little woozy. I was very glad that it was Sunday, seeing as how I probably wouldn't be able to focus had I been forced to go to the surgery that day. God, I probably would have done something terrible due to lack of concentration. As it was, my breakfast making wasn't going so well. I sipped at my newly poured cup of tea only to realize that it was hot water, and I stood there for five minutes before I noticed that I hadn't pushed the bread down into the toaster.

Sherlock must have noticed my troubles, because he came up and took my cup of hot water from me, taking the tea-making process from there. I sighed heavily and leaned against the counter, watching him curiously. It wasn't often he made the tea for someone else's benefit, or did anything of the sort for that matter, but sometimes he surprised me.

"Thanks," I said when he handed me a properly prepared cup of tea, sipping it and closing my eyes in that simple slice of bliss that I good tea always brought me. I opened my eyes to find that Sherlock was still watching me.

"Are you alright, John?" he asked eventually.

I was caught off guard by his tone and the way he leaned in to look closer at me. I raised a hand. "Sherlock, I'm fine." I turned my face away from him, furrowing my eyebrows. "I'm fine."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him look at me for a few more seconds and then turn away, leaning his hands on the counter in front of him with his back facing me. There was then a loud noise, and I jumped, my gaze snapping on Sherlock. He had slammed his hands on the counter and was now leaned over even more.

"It wasn't supposed to go like this," he said softly. "This was not supposed to happen."

"What do you mean?" I asked, worried by this sudden change.

He whirled around and I was alarmed by the slightly deranged look in his eyes. "All of this, John!" he said gesturing wildly. "I was not supposed to be gone for nine months. I was to get back to you sooner. All of Moriarty's men should be gone, dismantled," he was ticking things off quickly, getting more and more worked up. "Moriarty's game was never supposed to involve you. You were never supposed to be in danger. The game wasn't to get that out of control. I would take it all away if I could."

I agreed with him in that moment, wished that we could reverse everything and go back to a time before all of this happened, before Moriarty had ever come into our lives, and make all of the pain go away. I didn't like this new Sherlock, morose and apologetic.

"Sherlock," I said softly, stepping closer. "Don't beat yourself up over it. You did the best you could, given the situation. I'm not mad at you."

Sherlock sagged slightly, hanging his head and exhaling deeply. "Thank you for not getting over me completely, John," he said, breaking the silence that had settled over us for a few minutes.

A tightness filled my chest, and I looked away from him, blinking a few times. No, I wasn't crying. "I don't know if I could have, Sherlock."

"You should have. It would have been easier on you. Then you wouldn't be caught up in this chaos with Moran like you are now," he said a little more firmly, some of his confidence returning.

"No, Sherlock," I said just as sharply. "I was not getting over you, not when there was so much left unsettled, so much I didn't know about the circumstances of your death." I ran a hand through my hair, noticing how Sherlock had stiffened. "There was still a chance for me to figure out what I wanted to know, and believe it or not, there was still the slightest chance that you were alive. Even if my conscious self knew you to be dead, when there was that sliver of my mind that thought you could still be alive, there was no way that I was moving on." God, I was wiping wetness from my eyes. "Maybe if you had been gone for longer I would have eventually moved on, but I was never going to get over you completely. I wish you would realize the importance you had-have in my life."

Sherlock's eyes had widened slightly. "John," was all that he managed to say. The tense atmosphere in the kitchen was shattered by a chime from Sherlock's laptop that was sitting on the side table in the living room. Sherlock frowned and made his way over to it. I took my tea and the slightly burnt toast and sat down in my armchair in the living room, watching Sherlock curiously as he checked his email. His face went from slightly irritated, to blank, to concentrated. His fingers immediately started flying across the keyboard, his eyes scanning the screen as he typed. I vaguely wondered what was going on and if it had anything to do with Moran. I didn't ask, though, taking a bite of my toast which went down my throat like sawdust. I set it down on my plate, deciding tea would be a good enough breakfast on its own.

Sherlock finished typing and stood up from his computer, closing the lid on it as he did so, and then resumed the pacing that I had interrupted by coming down earlier that morning. I was again mesmerized by the flutter of his robe and the frustrated expression he had on his face as he paced the length of the room, almost brushing my legs each time he went by.

"It just doesn't fit together," he suddenly hissed, whirling around and peering out the window angrily. "Why isn't it fitting?" He turned and sat down in his chair, his fingers resting on his chin. I could have probably done most anything that moment, and it would have taken Sherlock a few minutes to even notice, he was so lost in thought. This was better than the desperate, sad Sherlock from before, this I could cope with. I was used to the stumped, frustrated Sherlock, and dealing with him was something I could do, regardless of circumstances.

His eyes focused on me after a few minutes. "John, you can't go to the surgery tomorrow," he said calmly.

"What? Why?" I asked suspiciously. I was counting on the surgery for some time out, time to get my mind straight and see other people. The surgery was something that had stayed constant throughout this whole ordeal and it was a good mind-clearer for me. It was something that I was very good at that helped me focus.

Sherlock leaned forward. "There is a sniper on the loose, intent on using you to get to me. Now, I don't know about you, but I am not willing to take that risk at the moment."

"You know, Sherlock, I was on my own for nine months without dying by sniper, why would that be an issue now that you're here with me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Moran has only known me to be alive for about a month now, and I presume that he believes if we let our guard down momentarily after being reunited, that is when the blow will hit the hardest. He is not as smart as Moriarty was, but he was around the man enough to have picked up a few tricks. It's going to be another mind game."

"So, I can't leave at all?" I asked incredulously. This was not looking good at all. Sherlock was silent for a few moments, lost in thought.

"Leaving the flat is probably not the best move at the moment. If there is ever a time where I deem it safe, you may go, but only if I am accompanying you," Sherlock said, and there was something in his eyes that I had only seen a few times before. "Unneeded risks are not something I am willing to make, John, not with you." I knew immediately where I had seen the expression before. It was his rare, protective face, the one he used when Mrs. Hudson was threatened and the one I saw briefly when I had been strapped in Semtex. I knew that the strange swell of happiness that I felt was not quite appropriate for the moment, but I couldn't help it. Something about Sherlock being so protective of me in that way was… nice.

"I'll need to call Sarah, then," I said eventually. "God, what am I going to tell her? Or Lestrade? I was planning on doing drinks with him on Tuesday night." Drinks had been something that we did every once in a while, mostly on Tuesdays or when he wasn't working on a case. I had been pretty sure that the meetings were Lestrade's way of watching over me and making sure that I wasn't losing it, but I didn't particularly care. Lestrade was somebody I liked, and even though he had been one of the ones to accuse Sherlock, I knew he hadn't meant for everything to turn out the way it did.

"Tell them you came down with something and don't feel like leaving your flat. A trivial matter," Sherlock said with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

"And what if one of them decides to come knocking and finds that I am not at home?"

Sherlock sighed. "John, I am sure you have enough mental capacity to find a liable excuse as to why you are not at work or at home. At the moment I have much more important things to worry about than your alibi. Your life, for instance." He sighed, ruffling his curls anxiously.

Yes, this was much more back to normal than anything else that had happened was; Sherlock being irritated by a puzzle that he couldn't solve and taking his frustration out on everyone else.

I sat there a few more moments, observing as Sherlock puzzled, until I decided I should at least do _something_. I still had a few items that needed unpacking, so I stood up from my armchair, grabbing my plate with the uneaten toast and my empty cup. I could almost feel Sherlock's eyes tracking me into the kitchen as I tossed the toast in the bin and washed up my dishes. Glancing over at Sherlock I wondered how long it had been since he had eaten anything substantial. I knew that he didn't like digestion slowing down his mind while he was on a case, but he wasn't looking his normal self, health-wise, and this case had the potential of lasting a while. I decided I would make him a plate of toast with jam and see if he would eat it. He did have something of a sweet tooth.

It took Sherlock a second before he noticed the plate I was waving under his nose. "Sherlock."

His eyebrows rose. "And what is that?"

"Hmm… well I think it's toast," I said dryly. "And I think you're supposed to eat it."

"No, I think I'll pass," he responded, giving a dismissing wave of his hand.

Nope, he was not going to get away with it this time. "Sherlock, for the love of… just eat it would you? You look like you could keel over any moment from starvation, and do you really think I want the person who is trying to protect me from an assassin sniper passing out from hunger?"

"John," Sherlock protested, but I merely waved the plate under his nose again, my other hand on my hip. An odd image of a housewife wearing a pink apron with a hand on her hips doing the same thing to her husband that I was to Sherlock flashed through my mind and I took my hand off my hip.

"Eat. The. Toast," I said sternly, and Sherlock only eyed me one more time before he took the plate with a grumble, picking up one of the slices like it was going to cause him pain, taking a reluctant bite. I smiled lightly when he polished the rest of the toast off fairly quickly, obviously much hungrier than he had thought or had wanted to show.

I took the empty plate from him, keeping the smile on my face just to annoy him, moving back into the kitchen, relishing the fact that I had not lost my touch in dealing with Sherlock. After cleaning the plate, I decided that it was high-time to finish unpacking my things that were still in the suitcases upstairs. Granted, I didn't have much, but it was pestering me.

The rest of the day seemed way too normal to be the first day back at the flat and back with Sherlock, considering how emotionally strained I had been just hours ago.

I finished with my unpacking and attempted to rid the flat of some of the dust that had accumulated over the months. The fridge needed some cleaning and Sherlock's science equipment was still sitting on the kitchen table in boxes, along with a good amount of his other stuff that usually littered the floor around the flat. That in itself would take some time to organize, but I smiled as I realized that I had as much time as I wanted to do all of this. There were no limits on the amount of time I had with Sherlock, and when Sherlock sorted all of this Moran rubbish out (and I knew he would eventually), we could return back to normal, solving cases and running around London, which was what I desperately wanted and had yearned for that bleak period when I thought the man was dead.

-0-0-0-0-

**Thanks to those of you who have left feedback so far, it is greatly appreciated. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, I just enjoy writing about them.**

-0-0-0-0-

I had another bad dream that night. In this one I was in the army hospital, running back and forth between wounded soldiers, stitching a wound here, splinting a leg there. A nurse came up to me during a lull.

"We have a new one just in," she told me. "We need you to look immediately; we don't know if he's going to make it." She didn't elaborate any more than that, which was unnerving on its own. And then they brought the man in on a stretcher and transferred him gently onto the small hospital bed.

A pale face, much too pale for the tanned faces of Afghanistan soldiers, and hair dark and curly, and soaked in blood. I rushed to the side of the bed, ready to do whatever I could to save him, but just by looking at him I could tell that I was most likely too late.

"Sherlock," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. This wasn't right. Even through my dream I could tell that this wasn't right. Sherlock wasn't meant to be in the camouflage army uniform, and the wound on his head was not the right kind of wound of the war. Not many soldiers died from hitting pavement in the desert. I reached down to check his pulse, just to make sure, but two nurses came by and started wheeling his bed away with murmured apologies before I was even able to touch him. I lurched after them, but two soldiers that were nearby held me back, telling me to stay calm and attend to the other patients in need of my assistance. I ignored them, still fighting to get to Sherlock, my Sherlock, whom I couldn't seem to save. I was shouting his name again, my voice becoming hysterical as the time went on.

"John!"

I awoke with a start to the same scene as the night before, Sherlock pinning me in the dark. My mind automatically supplied the 'people will talk', and I couldn't help the small little bubble of mirth I felt. This time Sherlock merely climbed off of me and lay down without a word on the other side of the bed, checking to make sure it was okay by looking at me with a raised eyebrow. I nodded, not sure my voice would work at the moment, as I was trying to catch my breath. He was still watching me, and I could see the concern painting his features. It wasn't an expression I was used to seeing on Sherlock. Sure, I had seen that expression when he was acting, but this was sincere. It was in the way his eyebrows drew together and the furrow between them that changed between when he was acting and when he really meant it; not much of a change, but enough that I was able to tell.

"I'm sorry about this, Sherlock," I said when I had caught my breath. Lying in a bed in the dark with me was probably not on his list of things that he wanted to be doing.

He frowned. "Unless you have control over your dreams, which most people don't, you have no reason to be apologizing. Either that or you are apologizing for something that I am not yet aware of."

While most of the time Sherlock's reasoning caused anger and offense, every once in a while, like now, it was helpful and could make you feel better.

"I had nightmares before, you know, about Afghanistan," I said. He had most likely heard a few of them over our time together, even though I had had less than when before I met him.

"Yes, but since I am now the cause of your nightmares I feel it my duty to try and prevent them," he said softly. There was no reason to be whispering, but something about the silence of the room caused both of us to not want to disturb it very much. We were both talking in low murmurs, and there was a certain intimacy to it that made my face grow warm. Luckily it was dark, so Sherlock would not be able to see the blush crawling across my cheeks.

"You really don't have to," I mumbled, somewhat embarrassedly.

"John, your nightmares always leave you irritable the next day, and I usually receive the brunt end of it. I would much rather, under the given circumstances, avoid this." He paused for a second in which I had time to wince at his description of my behavior. Of course, my irritation was nothing on his sulking boredom. "And I do not wish to be the reason for your discomfort. Knowing that it was my actions that led to your restless nights is not something I think I enjoy."

I smiled through the darkness at him, watching the way that the corners of his mouth turned up in response. I was spurred by the sudden impulse to run a hand through his dark curls, but I pushed the urge down harshly. Sherlock might not take kindly to that, and I think that then would lead to some serious questions I should be asking myself. Like why, at the moment, did I feel like I wanted to gravitate closer to him? Why was my greatest wish right now to just bury my face in his chest and fall asleep? It must just be the exhaustion talking, I told myself. I had just seen him die again in my dreams.

"Thank you, Sherlock," I murmured, closing my eyes. I still felt his gaze on me, but it was comforting, in a strange way. Right before I fell asleep I heard his soft response.

"Of course, John. Anything."

Little did I know, and I'm not sure if Sherlock knew either, but we had set ourselves up in a bit of a ritual. I didn't have a nightmare every night over the next week, but when I did he was there, lying next to me in the dark. Sometimes we spoke, but most times we were silent, appreciating each other's presence without the need of conversation. Every morning when I woke up he would be gone, down in the living room doing whatever it was that he was doing, which usually irritated me to no end, especially since we were both cooped up in the flat. We never mentioned these nighttime meetings during the day, whether because we didn't want to or because there was no need, I wouldn't really know. How would you bring something like that up, anyway? It wasn't like it was something that _normal_ flatmates discussed.

Over the next few days things started to settle between the two of us into something that resembled our normal. Sherlock, being so absorbed in the new problem he was facing, didn't bother me that much, which made it easier for me to get used to him being there again. I could innocently watch him while he tapped away at _my_ laptop, or hear his violin playing while he thought. It was probably the best way for me to recover. We hadn't rushed back into the case solving or the running around London, which would have been right back into the old times, but this was an easy way to get back into the swing of things.

It had been fairly easy to get out of my shift at the surgery. I had called in sick with a major stomach bug and told everyone who had asked after me that I was doing alright but didn't want visitors because of the state of things. It was right embarrassing, I told Lestrade, who chuckled, seemingly relieved at my bright attitude that I had been lacking for so long. Maybe I should tone it down or people would get suspicious. Stomach bugs didn't usually make a man chipper and happier than he had been in months.

"Don't worry, mate, we all get it sometimes. Just get some rest and I'll see you next week perhaps?"

"Alright, thanks, Greg. Bye." I clicked the phone off and glanced up at Sherlock and was slightly startled to find that he was staring at me, actually looking as opposed to merely zoned out, thinking.

"John, we need to make a trip to Tesco," he said abruptly, without preamble.

"Um, why?" I asked, eloquently as always.

"It's all part of the game, John," he responded, standing up and moving closer to where I was sitting.

"What, now?" I asked, startled by his urgency.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do try to keep up, John. Yes, we're going now, and time is of the essence."

And of course I followed him immediately, without much complaint. Some things never really change, do they?

-0-0-0-0-

It was very odd, having Sherlock accompanying me on a trip to the grocery store. Sure, it wasn't unusual for us to be walking through London together, but something about the thought of heading to such a normal place just seemed bizarre when accompanied by the world's only consulting detective. Not to mention the fact that as we walked down the street he kept twirling around in a circle, looking for something that I couldn't see, and dragging me along through side alleys in the most confusing and long route to the Tesco that I have ever taken. I assumed that it was all for a purpose, but when he decided that walking around the back of Tesco four times before actually walking in was a good idea, I began to think that maybe he was just toying with me. The look on his face was serious and concentrated, though, so I really wasn't sure.

"God, Sherlock, what is going on?" I asked quietly to him as we finally walked through the front doors and into the store.

He glanced around him in a jerky motion and then looked at me, the corner of his mouth quirking in a smile. "Getting the groceries, John, what do you think?"

I grumbled and shook my head as we made our way to the refrigerated section for milk, which, believe it or not, we were running low on. As I lead on expertly through the store, picking up the few things that I knew we needed, Sherlock followed me, making faces at some of the products and scowling at the friendly employees that happened to ask if we needed anything. This was actually quite fun, and if I was in the 'torture Sherlock' mood I would have taken longer in picking which brand of napkin we needed just to make him cringe. But I didn't want to put him in a bad mood and was reluctant to scare him out of ever coming to the store to pick up things we needed. He had yet to do that since I had known him.

I couldn't resist making him use the chip and pin machine to checkout, but it gave him absolutely no problems, which had him grinning smugly and me grumbling as we made our way out, the small amount of groceries in one bag that I was carrying. He immediately began his strange charade again, and at one point he grabbed my hand and maneuvered us into a side alley so fast that I almost stumbled before he managed to catch me.

"Sherlock, I am going to pull something," I complained, still huffing from the run we made from the nearest streetlight.

"Quiet, John," he murmured, pushing me so that we were further back into the darkness of the alley and behind a dumpster. I had no idea what was going on, and the way Sherlock was acting was starting to spook me. Was Moran on to us? Were we going to get shot in the head?

Sherlock was so close to me at the moment that I could feel his breath on my face as he kept me pressed against the brick wall of the tight alley. In the half-light I couldn't tell what he was looking at, but his head was bent to make it appear as if he had his focus on me, making us look like a couple. A good ruse, I suppose, if anyone were to wonder what we were doing in the alley. Not one that I would have chosen, but a good ruse nonetheless.

I opened my mouth to whisper to him, but he shook his head sharply and placed a gloved finger right in front of my mouth. I'm pretty sure I crossed my eyes trying to look at it, but I took the hint. I did continue scowling at him, though. Why in the world did we come out anyway if we were only in danger of getting killed? Only Lord knew… and Sherlock apparently.

I was a little worried that I wasn't as uncomfortable as I should have been against the alley wall. I could feel my face heating up as my mind wandered unchecked, and I was worried that Sherlock would be able to hear the hammering of my heart. God, what was wrong with me?

And suddenly his weight was gone, and he was sauntering out into the street again. I grumbled and followed after him, my mind doing strange loops of confusion, not to mention that my heart was still hammering.

"Sherlock, the milk is going to go bad if we don't get it to the fridge soon," I muttered.

He barely glanced my way. "The milk will be fine for a little while longer, John," he responded, only half paying attention, turning his head away from me to glare at a security camera on the building opposite. I could only imagine what was going on right now, and I vaguely wondered if Mycroft was involved. The thought made me involuntarily shudder, and Sherlock glanced at me from the corner of his eye. I had not been on good terms with the elder Holmes when Sherlock was gone, knowing that it had been a big fault of Mycroft's that had assisted to Sherlock's final act. I never actually blamed Mycroft for it, but I could tell that he knew of my anger, and he stayed away from me other than a few check-ins here and there that I had despised. I suppose now it made sense, Mycroft checking in on me. Sherlock had been alive and probably had wanted Mycroft to make sure that I was alright. The thought was a strange one, and I decided not to linger on it.

Sherlock had darted off again, and I raced to catch up with him, weaving in and out of complaining pedestrians, not stopping until we had made it into the flat. At that point I was breathing hard and leaning against the wall to try and catch my breath. There was a stitch in my side and my face felt hot. At least I was still in shape, up to a point. I had gone to the local gym every once in a while, in attempt to clear my mind, which had been slightly successful. And it left me tuckered out, which led to heavier sleep at night, which I was always struggling to achieve.

I glanced over at Sherlock, who was standing next to me in the hall. Something wasn't right. When I focused on him I noticed that his face had a sickly pallor to it and was drawn in discomfort. His eyes were slightly unfocused and he swayed on the spot alarmingly.

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed, surprised, when I had to catch him and support his weight before he collapsed. "God, what have you done to yourself?"

"John…" was all that he managed as I helped him up the stairs and into the living room, depositing him gently on the couch with a huff. Sherlock wasn't light and those stairs weren't exactly a short walk. I went into the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass of water for Sherlock, also deciding that maybe some hot soup would be good for him. It would be something in his system other than dry toast and tea. When was the last time he had actually eaten something substantial? Had he been taking care of himself at all over the time he was gone? Probably not, and it was finally catching up to him.

I remembered the easy cans of soup that I had in the cupboard, pulling one out and emptying the contents of it into a pot, which I set on the stove, and turned on the burner. While that heated I took the glass to Sherlock, noticing that he had sat up on the couch but didn't look much better than he had before. His eyes followed me across the room, but he didn't say anything.

"Here, drink all of this," I said, holding out the water to him. Hopefully he would listen to me now that he realized that his body wasn't immune to the treatment that he gave it. He eyed the glass, but after a moment took it from me and took a few large swallows. I left him to it and went back into the kitchen, checking on the soup, a simple chicken noodle soup with little to it, which was just the right thing on a queasy stomach. When it reached a decent temperature I ladled it into a bowl, grabbed a spoon, and took it into the living room.

The glass was empty and was sitting next to Sherlock, who had leaned back against the cushions, his expression blank and his shoulders hunched. He didn't glance up until I spoke.

"I made you soup," I said, inwardly chuckling at how dull that sounded. But I really didn't care, Sherlock was a dead man walking and needed whatever I could manage to feed him.

Sherlock sat up, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a tired smile. "I can see that," he said in a quiet voice, accepting the bowl from my hands. I watched him take a hesitant first bite, and then I turned, smile on my face, to head back to the kitchen to put on some tea. I wondered if anything had actually been accomplished by the trip to the store or if it had been a waste of time. I found myself not really caring either way, because it really had been an adventure of sorts, for a number of reasons. Sherlock's first trip to Tesco with me, for one. It seemed like something to mark on the calendar.

I returned to my armchair with a cup of tea, sighing as I leaned back in the chair, glancing over at Sherlock. He was still eating the soup, but was glaring at me as he did so. It was somewhat disconcerting, and I made a point to pretend like I didn't notice. Sherlock could probably see right through that.

"How's the soup?" I asked nonchalantly.

"You are quite the chef, John. Not many people can heat up canned food so well."

"Yes, thank you," I said, not taking the bait. "Sherlock, how long has it been since you've actually had a decent meal?" I asked, not missing the quick way which he had been spooning the soup into his mouth. The bowl was empty at this point and Sherlock set the tray aside. I smiled in satisfaction at the goal that I had just accomplished. Sherlock was on a case and had just eaten something that I had prepared him. Of course, he had almost passed out from malnutrition and exhaustion and would have been suicidal not to have eaten something, but it was the thought that counted, wasn't it?

"Was there anything that we actually accomplished with that trip?" I asked. I then remembered that the groceries that we had gotten from Tesco were still sitting in the hallway downstairs, and that the milk was probably not supposed to be down there for much longer if we wanted it to actually taste like milk when we got it. I stood up and set my cup on the coffee table.

"Yes, John, go rescue the milk," Sherlock said with a chuckle. I glared at him, although I'm sure my glare lacked much fervor.

When I trudged back up the stairs with the bag in hand, Sherlock was standing up and prodding at the wall of clippings that he had assembled in the past few days. He was grumbling and kept ruffling his hair irately.

"Sherlock, a few minutes ago you were about to pass out. Don't you think it would be a good thing for you to maybe take it easy?" I asked incredulously. That man was going to ruin himself. I was rather surprised when he whirled around to face me.

"John, do you realize the gravity of the situation we are in? A professional sniper and assassin, previously Moriarty's right-hand man, is after you and will not stop until he has gotten his revenge. I do not have time to rest, John, or to take a break because I am _dizzy._" His voice had risen and the last word was a sharp snap. He had moved so close that I had to crane my neck to meet his blazing blue eyes.

"Yes, well, we were just strutting around London thirty minutes ago," I said calmly. "You were wearing your signature coat and everything. I'm surprised nobody recognized you."

"All part of the plan. Obviously," Sherlock said, his serious tone dropping a notch.

"Yes, yes, alright," I said, nodding. "I can't argue with the man intent upon keeping me alive."

He stared at me for a few more seconds, and then turned back to his collage, mumbling to himself. I scratched my head in a confused fashion, staring at Sherlock's back. What was with him? Not only had he been invading my personal space more than usual, afterwards he acted like absolutely nothing had happened. He had always had little regard for personal space, but this was different, this was definitely more intense than it had ever been before. And he seemed to be able to turn it on and off, whatever _it _was, at the drop of a deerstalker.

I shook my head in defeat as he continued with whatever it was he was doing, and I decided to put the few groceries away, wondering what the rest of the day would have in store.

-0-0-0-0-

**Thanks for reading, and thank you to the reviewers so far. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.**


	6. Chapter 6

I was going to kill Sherlock. The man was driving me crazy, and it had already been almost two weeks since we had entered this lockdown. So far the only time we left the building had been the trip to Tesco and a few trips here and there since, only for short bits at a time, and I was already beginning to go stir crazy. To add to that I was stuck in this flat with a Sherlock who was having trouble with whatever problem he was trying to solve, and went from banging around the flat loudly, mumbling to himself, to lying on the couch not talking at all for hours on end. I couldn't really tell which I preferred, just that both behaviors were quite bothersome. I knew that he was trying to save my life and all, but did he have to be so bloody difficult about it?

The first week had been fine. I was still adjusting to life in the flat again, and Sherlock had been calm and working quietly on the case. It had been fine, and things had slowly adjusted to something akin to normal. Now he was going to drive me up the wall with his goings on. And it really had been difficult to keep giving Sarah excuses as to why I wasn't able to go to work. I think she just eventually let it go, thinking that it was something to do with struggling with grief. She knew that whatever she tried to do to help me would only be rejected. Greg was leaving me alone as well, only calling every once in a while to make sure that I was okay.

"Sherlock, for the love of— can you be patient for two seconds?" I growled as Sherlock hovered impatiently over me while I finished typing the text that he wanted to send to Mycroft. I had no idea what the text meant, it made absolutely no sense to me, but I supposed that the Holmes' had their own strange ways of communication. Why he was asking me to text it on _my_ phone I had no idea.

"_Hurry up,_ John," Sherlock quipped impatiently, looming over my shoulder. I turned sharply.

"Why couldn't you just send the bloody text if you're so impatient for it to be sent immediately? You know I can't type as fast as you can!"

He plucked the phone from my hand, pressing the send button on the finished text that I had just typed out, ignoring my outburst and turning back to the living room, taking _my_ mobile with him. I groaned in frustration, running my hands through my hair and following tiredly after Sherlock into the living room, where he had crouched in his armchair, my phone between his hands under his chin.

It was funny how now I was so irritated by his actions now, but each night when he climbed into the bed beside me he was like a completely different person. I knew for a fact that he could be working more on the case, but every night at the same time he crawled into the bed beside me. The first week he had only come when my nightmares were particularly violent and disruptive, but now he was coming every night, regardless of how I was sleeping. I didn't really know what to think of it.

But something clicked, and now I was resisting the urge to kill him. I grabbed the newspaper a little more forcefully than necessary, and sat down on the couch with a sigh. Not that the news was going to make my mood any better, but it was worth a try, at least. _Just appear to be doing something, John, and maybe you can trick yourself into being occupied and not so irritated. He is trying to save your life, you know._

"John, there was a typo in that text you sent," Sherlock said, breaking my inner ranting with a clean snap.

"You're the one who sent it, you great twat. Why didn't you check to see if there were spelling errors?"

"I did check for spelling errors, I just didn't feel like changing them. It's your number anyway," Sherlock said offhandedly.

Nope, I was not going to bite the hook on this one, no way. _Stay calm, John, stay calm._

"I'm not even certain if Mycroft will understand the text now, to tell you the truth. You should probably send it again," Sherlock said, holding my phone out towards me.

I stood up sharply, pushing the newspaper into the cushion next to me and stalked over to his chair, snatching the phone from his hand and silently sending the text again, making sure that everything was spelled correctly before I sent it again.

"There," I said shortly, setting my phone down on the coffee table. "Anything else mundane you need me to do?" I asked him with a hint of frustration, as much as I tried to hide it. I don't think he noticed.

"Nothing now, John, but silence, if you can manage that," he responded, not even looking over at me. "I need to think."

"Fine," I grumbled, stalking off up the stairs and to my room, slamming the door behind me. I sat down on my bed with a huff and hid my face in my hands. Was Sherlock being purposely difficult towards me? Because it sure seemed like it. What had changed that suddenly made him so cut off and difficult towards me? Why did he need to be acting like this? It wasn't achieving anything other than making me frustrated at him. Was he trying to push me away? My blood went cold at the thought of this. Maybe that was his purpose. Maybe he had realized how clingy I was becoming and that his behavior was not helping that, so he had decided to use different tactics.

Maybe it was as well that I stay in here for a little bit and cool off before I did something to make everything worse than it was. I lay back against the pillows and propped my feet up in front of me, closing my eyes for a few minutes at most.

I must have fallen asleep, because I jolted heavily at the soft knock at my door, hopping up from the bed and opening it without a second thought. Sherlock was standing there, the corners of his mouth turned down and his fists clenched by his sides. He was glaring somewhere above me. I shook my head, trying to clear the fuzziness of sleep from my thoughts.

"Sherlock?" I urged when he didn't start talking for a few moments.

He seemed to come to himself a little bit, and his gaze landed on me. "John, it has come to my attention that you may be, ah… frustrated with my behavior at present," he stated stiffly.

"What gave you that idea?" I asked. I was not going to fall into his feel-bad-for-me act. Sherlock was a conniving mastermind when he wanted to be, and most of his actions had some roundabout reasoning behind them.

"Well, your body language for one, the tone of your voice a few minutes ago, and the slamming of your bedroom door was a dead giveaway. Unless you were angry at something you read in the newspaper that leaves my recent behavior as the reason behind it."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," I said calmly. "Is there a reason you came to tell me this?"

His shoulders dropped slightly from their tense position. "I haven't exactly been myself lately, John, and I wanted to apologize. This c_ase_ is far too close to home for my liking and I am having trouble keeping above it. I am at a dead end, and there is nothing I can do about it right now except wait for information from Mycroft, which is unbelievably maddening, as I'm sure you can understand, having been stuck here with me as you are." He paused, glancing down at his feet and then back up at me. "I apologize in full for anything I do that angers you within the confines of this case."

"Yes. Right," I responded shortly.

Sherlock nodded once, in a slightly defeated manner, and then turned around to head back to the living room.

"Wait," I said, reaching out and grasping the sleeve of his silk robe. He turned, surprise written in his face. His gaze met mine and I found whatever I was going to say gone from my mind almost immediately. I was staring at him and he was staring back and neither of us was saying anything. "Yes, thank you," I said, nodding and breaking eye contact. Sherlock was still staring at me, so I decided to walk past him down the stairs to the living room, aware of his eyes following me.

What was wrong with me? Why did I turn to a dithering fool whenever he was staring directly at me? This had never happened to me _before; _what had changed? It was probably a good idea that I get a check on this as quickly as possible.

-0-0-0-0-

That night I lay in bed, wide awake, thoughts running mad through my head. Today had been strange from the beginning. For one, Sherlock had been unbelievably harsh in the beginning, which was normal, but not with that sort of intensity. And then he had come up to my bedroom to _apologize,_ which always caught me off guard. I was currently attempting to go over all the possible reasons he could have for doing this. Of course there was the chance that he had no ulterior motive at all, but I was keeping my eye out for any more strange behavior, such as attempting to drug my tea like he had done the last time he apologized for being rude. Adding to the fact that he had been coming into my room every night for the past week and a half something had majorly changed.

I looked at the digital clock on my nightstand and sighed. Sherlock would be in here in a little while, acting like it was completely normal for him to be there, right beside me the rest of the night, and then we would forget about it in the morning. I had come to enjoy this, though, knowing that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to, that even if my dreams were making me live through horrible recreations of his death, he was still alive, right there next to me. Not only that, but he was doing this all for me, which was… comforting, I suppose.

I glared at the clock, which was reading 11:30 in bland red numbers. I didn't think I was going to get any sleep that night; I was restless and on edge, tossing and turning in frustration. I found myself anxious for Sherlock to get there, just so I wasn't sitting here in the dark alone with these thoughts in my head. Was I pathetic to need him? I didn't know for sure, but I found it hard to care.

I eventually drifted off to sleep, worry and slight hurt at Sherlock not showing still lacing through my thoughts.

My eyes flew open, greatly startled, when I heard a loud, tinkling crash from downstairs. My head was fuzzy and I felt bleary. The clock said three o'clock, which caused me to blink at it a few times, but Sherlock wasn't here yet, and he usually made his way to my room each night around midnight. What was he doing downstairs that had caused such a crash? My mind was producing images of Sherlock bleeding heavily from broken glass or burned from an experiment gone wrong.

I was just beginning to get the notion that maybe I should go down and check on him when I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs; Sherlock was probably the most graceful person I knew, so I sensed trouble. I got the feeling that the crash had been something that Sherlock had thrown in frustration, having a tendency to do that every once in a while, and I wouldn't put it past him to do it in the middle of the night.

My door was opened gently, despite the fuss it sounded like he was in. He quickly climbed into the bed next to me, obviously noticing that I was still awake, but not saying anything.

I stiffened in surprise when he scooted right up to me and buried his face in the crook of my neck without any hesitation whatsoever. He was pressing against me almost completely, one arm snaking across my shoulders and holding tightly. I didn't dare move or say anything, waiting for him to say something; anything to explain this anomaly. What made everything even more alarming was the wetness I felt on the side of my neck. Was Sherlock crying?

"Sherlock," I whispered, hoping that he could sense the question in my tone.

He shook his head ever-so-slightly, pressing tighter against me if that was even possible. What was going on? What could possibly have happened that caused Sherlock to act like this? Nothing that I knew of could reduce him to something this…well, intimate.

I eventually started to feel tired again, calmed by the sound of Sherlock's even breathing. By the sound of it, he had fallen asleep, which was again another oddity. Usually in his nighttime visits he remained in a meditative state, but never actually fell asleep.

My eyes were starting to drift shut when I stiffened again, hyper-aware of Sherlock. He was nuzzling his face against my neck and mumbling my name in his sleep. His hot breath was tickling my neck and face and his grip on me tightened.

I really considered waking him up when he stuck his nose in the hollow under my jaw, giving me a _pleasant_ chill. Now that was inappropriate, especially since Sherlock was fast asleep right now and had no idea that he was doing this. But I couldn't help the heat that was swirling under my skin and how addictive the warmth of Sherlock's touch felt. It was starting to become difficult to explain away these reactions as 'not gay.' Why was this happening to me?

This definitely did not fit under the 'flatmate agreement' at all. This didn't even fit under the 'best friend' category. Best friends didn't come into your room every night and then curl up around you like this. This was something else entirely, and the major problem that I was currently having was that it was not bothering me as much as it probably should have been. This felt a little too good, a little too right, and it was really worrying me. Apparently it wasn't worrying me enough that I wasn't able to fall asleep, because that is exactly what I did.

I jumped when I felt an odd buzzing sensation against my hip, and it took me a few minutes to take in my surroundings. Sherlock was still there, sleeping against me in the dark of my room, and it was about four in the morning now. There was that similar buzz again, and I noticed that it seemed to be coming from _Sherlock. _It took me a moment to realize that it was the mobile phone in the pocket of his robe that was buzzing. It buzzed again, and Sherlock stirred.

"John, get that, would you?" he mumbled, burrowing his face into my shirt with a deep sigh. I held back whatever comment I was going to make and used the hand that wasn't pinned under Sherlock to locate his pocket and pull out the phone, which happened to be quite the challenge. I managed it in the end, though, glaring at the glowing screen in the dark. The name scrawled across the front made me clench my teeth unconsciously. If Mycroft was calling Sherlock in the middle of the night like this, though, it could be something important. Mycroft had connections that could be of use, and Sherlock had said that he had used Mycroft for help before. What if he was still using him now?

I clicked the answer button and put the phone up to my ear. "Hello?"

"John," replied the cool, curled tone on the other end of the line. Mycroft sounded as pompous on the phone as he did in person, and I could almost imagine him sitting across from me with his legs crossed, leaning back with that smirk on his face. "I suppose my brother is too busy to answer his phone at the moment," he went on. "Sleeping can't be the reason, but I can imagine that whatever it is requires his full attention and cannot be postponed to talk to his dear brother, who happens to have important news regarding his current…predicament."

"What is it, Mycroft?" I said in a voice that was a step above becoming a growl. I did not have the patience for the older Holmes brother at the moment. In fact, I had no idea when my patience for the elder Holmes would ever return. Had I ever had patience for him? I really couldn't remember.

"John, I would much prefer it if I could speak directly with Sherlock. I cannot run the risk of the message not being given correctly and some of the details getting confused in the process. Also, this requires his immediate attention."

"Fine." I reluctantly lowered the phone from my hand and glanced at Sherlock, who still had his face buried in my shirt. "Sherlock," I said softly, gently shaking his shoulder. He groaned and turned his head. "Sherlock, you need to take this phone call."

Sherlock eventually raised his head off of my chest and glared at me, his hair standing up on one side. I had to stifle a chuckle, which I knew wouldn't go down well.

He noticed the phone in my hand and the expression on my face and frowned in a way that, when coupled with the way his hair was sticking up, made it hard not to laugh.

"Mycroft," he said, holding out his hand for the phone, and I nodded. I handed it to him curiously. He plucked it from my hand and put it to his ear.

"Hello Mycroft," he said in the icy tone that he regularly used to speak to his older brother. His expression shifted as he listened, though, from one of cold irritation to one with furrowed eyebrows and glinting eyes. The silence in the room was so tense that I found it hard to breathe. Something was up, and I didn't like it one bit.

"Are you sure, Mycroft? You must be absolutely sure," he snapped, narrowing his eyes as he listened to the response. "I will be there in an hour," he stated, and then ended the call, setting his phone down on the bed next to him, staring out into the darkness of the room without any expression on his face.

The silence continued, and I didn't dare break it by asking what was going on. Sherlock usually told me when he felt like it, and asking him had the potential of breaking his train of thought.

Sherlock's eyes refocused after a few minutes and his gaze landed on me. I had sat up in the bed and was looking at him curiously. "We are needed on the other side of London," he finally said.

"At four in the morning?" I asked incredulously.

Sherlock stood. "I will inform you on the way, John. For now, get dressed."

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**Thank you to all who have been reviewing so far, it is greatly appreciated. I do enjoy a review; it brightens my day. Thank you for reading, I shall update soon!**


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